


Divine Pulsing, Ltd.

by orgiastique



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Choking, Come Swallowing, Frottage, M/M, Multi, Pornstars, Snowballing, Switching, Trans Claude von Riegan, Trans Male Character, Under-negotiated Kink, bottom sylvain gautier, claurenz are oddly romantic and wholesome in this, ok but consider Adult Video Actors AU, sylvix are a hot cheeto mess
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-28
Updated: 2020-04-11
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:55:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 15,661
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23359618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orgiastique/pseuds/orgiastique
Summary: "What is the most spiteful way to spend the outrageously ample inheritance my shithead father left me?" wondered Sylvain (25, queer, unemployed) one sweltering summer's night at IHOP. It was 1AM. He looked up at Claude (22, queer, uncommitted to a single career trajectory) and saw the answer.or; sylvain and claude join forces to build an lgbt+ adult video production company with progressive values
Relationships: Felix Hugo Fraldarius/Sylvain Jose Gautier, Lorenz Hellman Gloucester/Claude von Riegan, Sylvain Jose Gautier & Claude von Riegan, a shitton of side pairings both romantic and porny i literally cannot bear to tag them all, really just half a claurenz and half a sylvix at heart
Comments: 25
Kudos: 103





	1. claude

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this fic is, romantically, half a claurenz and half a sylvix, but a lot of people fuck because it is a story about the fe3h crew working at an adult video production company. for example, while the first chapter is largely claurenz in spirit, lorenz and catboy!felix are very up in each other's business.
> 
> a warm heads-up: this fic will have an ensemble cast consisting of most of the fe3h characters, whose gender/sexuality ID will vary across the spectrum. if that's not something you're comfortable with, this fic may not be for you.
> 
> i'd like to thank [ivory](https://archiveofourown.org/users/birdsandivory/pseuds/birdsandivory) and [bees](https://archiveofourown.org/users/notallbees/pseuds/notallbees) for the looking this over and lois for many helpful discussions about catboy rentals and dildos. a special shout-out to my wife for performing a dramatic reading of this to help spot typos. her lorenz was a delight.

"I don't fuck costars off-camera," says Lorenz. 

Claude can see that he says it because he thinks he already knows what Claude is, sidling up to him in the powder room. Claude gets that a lot. Maybe it's his gold earrings; or it's the way he wears his dark and wavy hair, side fringe tied up off his face; or it's how he leaves the top of his dress shirt unbuttoned because summers are so much more humid here than where he grew up.

Who knows.

(Hilda does and assures him it is 1000% verifiably because of the round half-lens glasses he's recently acquired from his favorite antiques shop. "They make you look like one of those train molesters," she said, which Claude found to be a little unfair. He doesn't even take the train.)

With a polite smile, Claude replies, "I didn't ask."

Lorenz humphs. "Spare yourself the embarrassment of trying to deny your intentions. I saw the way you were _leering_ —"

"Either way, you're in luck," Claude says, "because it's my policy not to do that with my employees on _or_ off-camera." He offers his hand, watching a pair of amethysts round under the bright fluorescence of the room. "Claude Riegan. Sylvain has shown me many of your works, Lorenz."

" _You're_ —" Mouth agape, Lorenz gestures up and down at Claude, visibly flustered by the realization, and possibly also flustered over the fact that he's flustered. "Why, from what I heard from Sylvain, I'd have thought you a senior with suede elbow pads!"

Claude feels his smile sour. He sighs resignedly, letting his hand fall back down to his side. "Well, Sylvain is certainly the glitz and glamour of the operation."

"And you are what? The fair wages and benefits package side of things?"

"That's our shared vision," Claude says. "But I do end up working out most of the details."

Lorenz takes pause for a moment, suspicion seesawed in the tilt of his lips. Claude can tell he's being studied for some sign, some hook of artifice. Lorenz appears unsatisfied by whatever he finds in Claude's expression but, evidently too well-mannered to sound ungracious, he says, "Then I must thank you for your efforts. I'd be delighted to make your acquaintance properly at a later time, but please, do excuse me." He stood, straightening the lapels of his dark grey suit. "I am due to standby in Studio E."

And then he's brushing past Claude in a cloud of light floral perfume. Claude turns to watch over his shoulder as Lorenz makes his way toward the door, the soft sashay of his narrow hips measured by the _tick tick tick_ of gold-plated stilettos over linoleum tile.

Claude is due to oversee the filming that's taking place in Studio A, located on the opposite side of the building. The spends the entire walk there wondering if those heels are going to stay on.

________________

"So, you also think it's the glasses?" 

"Oh yeah, Hilda and I talk about it all the time," replies Sylvain around a mouthful of the triple-pepperoni pizza they're having for their working dinner. He's dropping crust crumbs down the keyboard but hasn't yet noticed. Right now, Claude's not sure Sylvain's eyes are even capable of registering anything but the on-screen image of Felix Fraldarius's ass, plugged up by a long, black cat tail. "Why'd you start wearing glasses anyway? It's not like you need them, right?"

Claude shrugs. "Thought I'd try out a new thing."

"It looks like a very old thing."

"It has _history._ "

"It has pervy vibes," Sylvain counters, which seems a little pot and kettle of him. Meanwhile, his fingers fly over the sliders built into his custom keyboard, then he sets the buffer bar back a couple of seconds. From under the reduced background noise rises the soft, keening whines Felix makes in the back of his throat as his cheeks hollow around the cock he's sucking. The silver bell of his collar tinkles flirtatiously. " _Noooice._ "

Sylvain raises a hand to Claude for a high-five and cackles when Claude returns it with a punch to the shoulder. He folds his pizza slice in half and polishes it off in one monstrous, self-congratulatory bite. 

The screen flickers momentarily as Sylvain swipes over to the footage from a different camera. And there's Lorenz, backed up against the corner of the blue L-shaped couch they're on, receiving catboy Felix's services. He's lost his heels along with the rest of his clothes, which all lie discarded to one side. His long legs are clamped tight around Felix's head, knees hitched over his shoulders and hands fisted in his inky hair, thumbs brushing over the cat ears.

This whole catboy thing is a pet project of Sylvain's. 

"What if you could rent catboys?" he'd proposed one day during a brainstorming session, with a faraway look in his eyes.

Claude had taken a very long sip of his coffee. "Okay. What if you could rent catboys."

They've never filmed a full-length feature of the concept, just a handful of 15-minute shorts made available to the paid subscribers of Divine Pulsing. Part of this can be attributed to the fact that when Sylvain says "catboys" he really just means "Felix Fraldarius, specifically, dressed up as a sex kitten" and Felix Fraldarius, inconveniently, films by hidden camera _only._

The low moan that rumbles from the dual speakers almost startles Claude into dropping his water glass.

Lorenz, who shares none of Felix's camera-shyness, peers into the lens with an odd smile. Then, his half-lidded eyes drop down to Felix, whose full cheeks he grazes with his knuckles tenderly before easing him off his cock. Felix releases him with a wet _pop_ , rolling up onto his heels, then up and over to straddle Lorenz's lap. His face is flushed, hair a wispy, sweat-damp mess. Lorenz cups him between his hands, tilting back his head to lick a hot stripe up his throat. He nips softly at the skin along Felix's jaw and takes his chin between thumb and forefinger, tipping in for a kiss. Felix moves against him with feline ferocity, gunning for offensive advantage as he invades Lorenz's mouth with his tongue, and Lorenz receives his enthusiasm with gentle grace, raveling the long lines of his arms around Felix's waist like ivy.

One of Felix's hands disappears out of frame, and it only takes a second for Sylvain to trace it down in a wider camera angle. The angle also affords a view of the delectable way Lorenz's back arcs like a drawn bow, hips hitching forward into the hand fisted over their combined erections. Lorenz's labored breathing speeds with Felix's vicious pace, and when the gold beads on his anklet start trembling, Claude bites down on the inside of his own cheek to suppress a groan.

"See, _leery._ " Claude finds Sylvain leveling a knowing look at him. 

With a wicked glint in his eyes, Sylvain rewinds the tape, rallying for an encore. Claude takes a perhaps too-emphatic gulp of his water and clears his throat.

"So, which is it," he says, just to have something to occupy his attention away from the goings-on of the video, "am I a leery perv on the train or a rheumatic old guy dressed in all suede?"

"Those aren't mutually exclusive."

"You know I don't even—"

"—ride the train. Yeah, yeah, everyone knows your bike is your baby." Sylvain rolls his eyes. "Just thought I'd lend you a hand, buddy."

Claude furrows his brows. "How's _that_?"

"Well." Sylvain flips through several angles of Lorenz's pink prick gliding in and out of Felix's mouth. He seems to be deliberating between an extreme close-up and a wider shot that frames in where Felix is teasing his own nipples, spine quaking with every pinch.

"The second one," Claude supplies.

Sylvain hums appreciatively and splices together the clips. "Well, so," he restarts his abandoned train of thought, "it's just that I think _certain_ people would find that bookish, old-soul thing charming."

" _Bookish_?"

"Bookish," Sylvain confirms. "Everything on your bookshelf is, like, either 800+ pages with no pictures or written entirely in Latin. Many are both."

"No, I mean, who are you saying is into that?"

Sylvain raises his eyebrows like, _Really, dude?_ "Who do you think?" He cranks up the volume, and Claude palpably feels Lorenz's whimper _tremble_ in the air around him, the decibels tickling the soft hairs of his beard.

"No," Claude says, after his beard settles a little. "I really don't think—"

"Don't judge a book by its cover," Sylvain tsks, reaching for another slice of pizza. "Unless it's one of yours, in which case they are exactly as they look."

"You know, I don't _have_ to rework the dialogue in your scripts. Could just let Dorothea & co. have at your throat for all the breadstick-related innuendo."

"But we’re business bros!" Sylvain raises the pizza slice like a flag. "We walk hand-in-hand, joined by our commitment to providing progressive terms of employment and equal-opportunity orgasms."

"And that's the _official_ mission statement, right?" Claude chuckles, returning Sylvain's fist-bump this time.

Sylvain beams proudly. "Look, all I'm saying is that he writes poetry, you read poetry. It's like tab A, slot B."

Claude wants his fist-bump back. "If he signs that exclusivity contract with us, he'll be our full-time employee. Rewind ten seconds and think about what you _just_ said."

"Right." Sylvain nods. "Equal-opportunity orgasms for all."

"Workplace harassment lawsuit for _us._ "

"But is it harassment if he likes it—"

" _Please_ stop talking." Claude puts his face in his hands.

Sylvain guffaws, clapping Claude on the back. "You're overthinking it," he says, dropping down to his normal tone. "It's a hard enough world out there for people like us. Why should we create more hurdles for ourselves?"

Claude rolls Sylvain's words around in his head a few times until it becomes a ball he throws at the back wall. He watches Sylvain watch his roommate and childhood friend and death pact partner writhe, half-sobbing, while Lorenz—the person that he's trying to set Claude up with—works the cat-tail plug against his sweet spot. The ball bounces back and hits Claude in the forehead.

"This is such a bad idea," he says.

"Sometimes, what we seek in others isn't always what we want for ourselves, am I right?" Sylvain says, a non-sequitur.

"What's _that_ supposed to mean?"

"Oh, it means something." Sylvain turns to Claude, nodding slowly, with all the sage-like quality of a guy wearing pizza-grease for lip cream. "Just trust me. When have I ever done you wrong, bud?"

"I—" Claude's mind flashes rapidly through every instance during college that Sylvain has called him out to IHOP at 1AM to cry about Felix Fraldarius's ass. But he supposes he wouldn't be where he is right now, if it weren't for the moist-eyed, sticky-elbowed beginnings of their friendship. "...honestly don't recall."

"Right?" Sylvain grins. "Just leave it up to me. I _know_ what I'm doing."

________________

Claude has been asked on several occasions, both by personal friends and business associates, why he keeps putting his chips on Sylvain Gautier. It's a reasonable question, given Sylvain's notoriety as an incorrigible skirt-chaser and the record-holder for most number of times anyone has changed majors at Garreg Mach University. 

But the thing is, despite the apparent recklessness of Sylvain's decision-making—sinking almost 80% of his mind-boggling inheritance into building an adult video business venture with no contacts or know-how, for example—he's never actually dealt Claude a losing hand. The details for his executive plan are usually not perfectly on-point, often driven more by gut instinct than careful analysis, but they're always something Claude can work with and mould into shape.

Claude reminds himself of this two weeks later, behind the wheel of the company car. He has a cart of camera equipment in the trunk and two addresses programmed into the GPS of his phone.

When he pulls up to the first one, a towering apartment building in a posh part of town, he sees Lorenz sitting in the vestibule between the two glass doors. Claude rolls down the passenger-side window and gives a wave.

Lorenz doesn't wave back. He obviously sees Claude, though, because he rises to his feet. When he begins to strut toward the door, Claude sees that the long, flowy sweater dress he's wearing has a deep slit that cuts up to mid-thigh. Lorenz's hair, curling elegantly over one shoulder, lays bright against the cream weave of the material. He has on another pair of heels today—peek-toe ankle boots this time—that are dark grey with feathery pompoms hanging from the zipper. They flutter as the gentle summer breeze hits him. 

There is something about the way Lorenz looks, hair set afloat by the wind, tall and slender and utterly aristocratic in his poise, that stirs up a childish impulse in Claude. The idea that if he honks like he's pulled up for a take-out order, maybe he'll put a wrinkle in those courtly features. But he's a 25-year-old man picking up his coworker for filming, not a 9-year-old child tugging at the pigtails of his crush on the playground, so he doesn't entertain the impulse.

Plus, it's not like he needs to exacerbate the situation by deepening the distrust dark in Lorenz's eyes as they exchange greetings.

"Thank you for the ride," Lorenz says, crossing his legs. He smells of a different flowery perfume today. Roses, maybe. "I'd told Sylvain that I could arrange my own transportation, but he insisted."

"It's eco-friendly," Claude replies airily, praying to the goddess that Sylvain hadn't been too transparent in his persuasion. He swings the car smoothly out of the circle and back onto the main road. "Besides, I think we got off to the wrong foot during our first meeting. We should get to know each other better, especially since you decided to join us long-term." 

Out of the corner of his eyes, Claude can see Lorenz fiddling with his fingers in his lap. He doesn't respond for a period of time that's beginning to border on awkwardness, so Claude decides to change tack, taking his eyes off the road to throw a wink. "And I'll even try to keep my _leering_ to a minimum."

Lorenz doesn't quite laugh at this, but he does huff softly. "What happened to the glasses you were wearing?"

"The feedback on those has not exactly been kind," Claude says, feeling a little salty over the implication of the question. _Guess everyone's in agreement, then._

But to his surprise, what Lorenz says next is "I thought they were neat." Which on its own could very well be another instance of just Lorenz being exceptionally well-mannered, except: "They looked like they have history."

Claude feels his smile widen into something genuine. "They're from an antique shop down the block from me." He strums his fingers along the top of the steering wheel, debating, then adds, "The shop has all kinds of stuff from old swords to teacups that supposedly date back to the 1100s."

Lorenz hums a high note. "Teacups, hm? I should check that out for my collection."

It was a stray morsel of information Claude remembered reading from Lorenz's official profile, and he hurrahs inwardly in triumph that Lorenz had bit the bait as he'd hoped. "How long have you been collecting?"

"Just after I moved out on my own."

"So a while, then? You got some good…" Claude stumbles, realizing belatedly that he knows close nothing about teacups. "...colors in there?"

"Yes. Every one in the rainbow," Lorenz says, amusement evident in his voice.

"Hey," Claude protests with a good-natured laugh. "I'm _trying._ "

"I know," Lorenz says. Claude looks over to the right-hand mirror as he prepares to make a turn and happens to catch the split-second a streak of sun falls over Lorenz's thin brows, lighting his eyes. "I appreciate the effort."

From there, conversation flows more easily. Lorenz asks about Claude's other finds at the shop, and they share a chuckle over what Claude had gifted Sylvain last year for his birthday: a tortoiseshell dildo from Edo Period Japan, which Sylvain complained about being _unusable_ because of the crack that runs down one side. 

A glance at the GPS tells Claude that they've been driving out from the city center for more than an hour. But time had passed them by in a flash, and they're turning off the highway, bouncing down narrow local roads.

"Your destination is in 100 meters, on your left," Google Maps announces.

Claude eases off the gas, scanning the homes for the right number. Right away, he recognizes the robin egg-colored cottage with the pitched roof based on his memory of the pictures Sylvain had shown him. The only thing that's different is the purple and green clover growing on the trellis, which must have been placed there recently—likely by their set artists.

"Cute," Claude says, reaching overhead to hit the garage door opener. He lets the car roll a little past the driveway before putting it in reverse. He straightens out the rear of the car and begins to back it into the tight one-car garage.

Lorenz makes a curious sound.

"What's up?" Claude asks, bracing his hand on the back of the passenger seat and twisting to look over his shoulder.

"It's nothing of importance," Lorenz says. "Just the first time I've seen anyone who wasn't a valet back into the garage of a personal home."

Claude considers telling Lorenz that he did, in fact, once work as a hotel valet. He'd spent most of his college years retrieving the cars of fancily-dressed politicians and business people whose cars probably cost more than three years' worth of his measly wages. It only takes a moment of wondering whether such a valet worked at Lorenz's glamorous high-rise building for him to swallow the words. 

"Well, I do value a quick pull-out," he says instead.

The silence that falls over the car as Claude brings it to a full stop makes his stomach drop. He looks to Lorenz with dread, fearing that he'd just undone their carefully-built rapport with one poorly timed joke. When their eyes meet, Lorenz's face is alarmingly close, so much so that Claude discovers there's darker indigo threads woven into the violet of his irises. Claude also sees immediately that his worries were for naught, observing the curve of Lorenz's well-moisturized lips, curled like the cat who got the cream. 

(He, too, might make a cute catboy. Claude should talk to Sylvain about that.)

"I see," Lorenz says, uncrossing his legs. The slit of his sweater dress falls apart as he shifts to unbuckle himself. "Have you ever thought about getting on the other side of the camera?"

And suddenly, Claude is remembering the first thing Lorenz ever said to him: 

_I don't fuck my costars_ off-camera. 

That's not what he means by what he said just now, surely. 

Still, it takes an inappropriate amount of time for Claude to laugh off the suggestion.

________________

When Sylvain had offered up his beach house—yet another piece of his colossal inheritance—as the location for Lorenz's gravure video, he'd sold it on the giant bay windows in the master bedroom and the plush white leather couch in the living room that, in his words, was "just begging for a naughty little tumble."

("Also, the shower is—" Sylvain mimed a chef's kiss over the steam of his Hot Pocket. "It's a _double_ waterfall with stone-paneled walls."

Claude took a noisy slurp of his cup ramen. "You should really rent the place out."

"Where would be the _romance_ in that?" Sylvain lamented. "The potential to use the phrase, _Let's get wet, ladies_?"

Claude snorted. "Please, oh please, let me be there when you use that on Dorothea.")

As Claude makes his way into the beachhouse, pulling the equipment rollie behind him while Lorenz struts on ahead, he catalogues his surroundings, noting the places that have been tweaked to perfection by their set design staff. 

The husband-husband team of Victor-Kirsten Designs were some of the first people Claude had convinced Sylvain to bring on board Divine Pulsing. Over just two short years, the company has managed to amass a colorful team of staff and talent, but their productions wouldn't be the industry stand-outs they are without the care that Ignatz and Raphael put into preparing the sets.

The front door opens up to a small corridor that leads into the living/dining area, separated from the kitchen by a breakfast bar. The place is decorated to look clean but casually lived-in, with an artful spread of magazines on the coffee table and some wayward throw pillows tossed around the couch. One wall of the apartment is lined with a series of floating shelves displaying a sparkling collection of glass sculptures.

Claude eyes a ridged, chrome-colored rod that's twisted at one end in the facsimile of a come-hither finger.

Some of them, he thinks, may be dildos.

Are very likely dildos.

"The decor here is of very fine taste," Lorenz comments from where he's ventured into the living area. He's standing in front of a sun-drenched composition of the ocean between the interlaced foliage of evergreens. His eyes sweep over the painting with such wondrous admiration that Claude doesn't have the heart to point out the dildos on display five meters to his left.

Instead, Claude just watches as Lorenz circles the room, carefully appraising every piece of art on its walls until he makes his way to the back. The entire rear of the cottage is glazed with floor-to-ceiling glass doors that open up to a breathtaking view of the ocean beyond the terrace.

"How beautiful," Lorenz says as he pushes open the door to let in the smell of the ocean. 

He takes a deep, deep breath. It looks like his chest balloons with more feeling than air from the way that all the tension in his face drains away, running home toward the welcoming arms of open waters. A sudden gust of wind brushes several locks of his hair over his face, and he lifts a hand to tuck them behind his ear with an elegant turn of the wrist.

Claude doesn't realize he's just standing there, staring at Lorenz stare out at the ocean, until a pair of curious eyes finds him. Claude starts, shuttering his gaze instinctively. 

Lorenz tilts his head. "So, should we get started?" he asks, motioning toward the spiral staircase Claude's just stupid-stalled in front of. "I imagine the bedroom's that way?"

Claude wants to slap his heart silly for the way it jolts at the question. 

_Get it together. You just think he's pretty._

The thing is, though, Claude is all too aware of the fact that he works with a lot of pretty people, whom he often sees in various states of undress—and the problem is that none of them even hold a candle to the poetic justice of Lorenz Gloucester's grace.

_You're just not used to his type. It's a fascination._

_It's fine._

Nevertheless, as Claude hefts the camera equipment up the stairs, he braces himself for a very long, trying day.

________________

All things considered, the morning isn't as big of a disaster as he'd feared.

For a 45 minute video, they plan to shoot about four hours of footage. The format is fairly traditional for a gravure video in that it's a "day in the life of" documentary, full of gratuitous amounts of rolling around—twisted in the white bedsheets, around the white leather couch, over the sun-warmed beach sand—and bending over. 

The twelve " _ensemble_ " changes are a bit...excessive. But everything was already hanging in the closet when they arrived, having been brought in the previous day with the set. The pieces were all hand-picked by Lorenz himself from his personal collection of lingerie with input from Hilda who, as the official costume/make-up person, also provided a few sparkling accents of accessory.

So, every 20 minutes Claude gets to take a five-minute breather in wait for Lorenz to slip into lingerie that ranges from silken and classy to a genre that Claude can only describe as _non-functional._ This is also the genre that makes Claude desperately replace all thoughts in his mind with the old, wrinkled face of his dear nan. 

Claude is doing just that, sitting with his legs stretched out in the sand of the small private beach behind the cottage. He wiggles his toes in the water that curls up to his ankles, watching the tide bring small shells back to their home in the sea.

It's 11:30AM on a weekday and so, so quiet out here. The beachfront of the cottages to either side of Sylvain's doesn't start for another 100 meters, but it doesn't even matter because there's no one in sight as far as Claude can see. There's something to be said about the peaceful atmosphere of this place, like some beauty of a deserted island out in the large span of the blue ocean. He feels the warm wind swirling around his cheeks and brushing the side of his neck. Only the squawk of the occasional seagull rises above the note of the crashing tides.

Claude lets his eyelids fall shut for a moment, basking in the mid-morning sun. He imagines himself on that island—an island far from here, where the breeze is warm and dry and everything is lambent gold or emerald green. The palm trees swing gently overhead, with the added weight of coconuts.

When he opens his eyes again, squinting against the vibrant sunbeam that greets him, Lorenz is there, squatted off to one side by Claude's feet. His back is bare, and clinging to the modest curve of his buttocks is a sleek pink and red triangle of polyester. It looks much more tight-fitting than the last swimsuit he had on, which was more of a sarong with purple tropical flowers and sea stars printed over a sky blue background.

"You find something?" Claude watches Lorenz jump a little at his voice. 

Lorenz turns, holding up a scrap of something that reflects brilliantly under the sun. "Sea glass," he says and lays the teal piece at the center of his palm to show Claude.

"Ah." Claude is distracted by the lace hanging in a neat little bow over the bulge of Lorenz's swimsuit, which dangerously borders on the non-functional genre. _Nan, nan, nan._ "It's shattered glass that's been smoothed out by the waves, right? Do you collect these too?"

Lorenz shakes his head. "It's the first time I've found one. You may have guessed that I'm not one to spend much time in the sun, since I burn easily." He presses his fingers to his cheeks, which despite the thick lather of sunscreen Claude had watched him apply all over his body, have turned a glowing shade of pink. It's cute, really. "I've only read about them in poems."

"What do the poets say?"

"They ponder where it comes from," Lorenz says, running a considering finger along one rounded edge of the sea glass, "how many years— _decades_ —it's spent adrift in the ocean. All the places it's been before it reached here."

Claude finds himself smiling. "Sounds romantic."

"Quite," Lorenz agrees, his expression soft as his hair falls over his face. He doesn't go to fix it this time, just leaves it be, and Claude very much wants to tangle his fingers in it—to feel the soft glide of the silken threads against his skin. Thankfully, Lorenz's voice snaps him out of his madness. "Here."

Claude makes a questioning noise as Lorenz extends his hand toward him.

"Take it," Lorenz says.

Claude short-circuits for a moment. "Uh. Wait. What for?"

"I'm asking," Lorenz elaborates slowly, "if you could hang on to it for me. Since I don't have pockets…?"

" _Oh._ Right." Claude laughs, staccato and awkward, feeling his face warm with color without the excuse of sunburn. "Yes. Let me take care of that for you."

He takes the piece of sea glass from Lorenz without meeting his eyes, zips it up in one of his many pant pockets, and pushes himself up onto his feet. He dusts sand off himself but feels no less a mess. 

"All right. Ready to wrap thing up out here?"

________________

Thirty minutes of Lorenz splashing around like a drowning octopus in his attempts to swim and one (1) pink donut floatie later, they're ready to take on the last cut of the film. 

The twelfth "ensemble" of the shoot only exists in spirit. It really just involves Lorenz getting naked and wet under the warm spray of the shower. (Yes, the one with the double waterfall.) For a few minutes, they stand in silence in the spacious bathroom, waiting for the pre-warmed camera lens to defog completely.

Things are much easier once they get rolling. Even at the end of a long shoot, Lorenz keeps up his professionalism like a trooper, conquering with ease the cheesy directions in the script like "accidentally" dropping the soap. After taking his sweet time bending over to pick up said soap, he leisurely lathers his ivory skin with it, running it down the length of his arms and against his chest, giving the dusty peaks of his nipples an extra good wash. Of course, the entire time he sends flirtatious little glances at the camera, eyes alight. 

Since the video isn't meant to be explicit, Claude keeps the frame of the camera above the sharp cut of Lorenz's hips. He's doing a good job of keeping his eyes there, too, until Lorenz's fingers begin to glide down the soft planes of his abdomen. They skim past the trail of lavender hair under his bellybutton, fingertips foraying into the bush of curls before he takes his cock in the palm of his hand.

He gasps quietly, head impacting the wall behind him as he curls in around himself. He strokes his thickening cock in slow, leisurely movements, eyelids fluttering shut. Meanwhile, he brings his other hand up to his mouth to bite at his thumb as he teases the pretty pink crown of his cock before taking the length in hand again. Claude can tell he's torturing himself for the camera. White teeth tear into plump, red lips as his hips jerk, lean thighs straining with effort to keep from fucking his fist too hard, too fast.

It's torture for Claude, too, trying to keep the camera over his shoulder steady as he traces the silken lines of Lorenz's body. When he shifts stance, he becomes acutely aware of the wet mess he's made inside his underwear. He swallows hard around the moan that presses up his throat.

Lorenz is panting harder now, the curve of his spine melded into the dark stone as his legs begin to tremble. Then, with a shattered shout that shakes the walls of the bathroom like thunder, he's overcome. The white ribbons of his spendings are washed quickly down the drain, and it's just the two of them again. The last tired, sated look that Lorenz shoots the camera is liquid heat pooling in Claude's belly. 

_A show for your eyes only, my dear_ , it whispers.

It's good, Claude reminds himself, setting down the camera and bracing his unsteady hands against the edge of the counter. Because that will be the feeling the viewers will get to enjoy, too, right?

It's good for business. 

Yes.

That's why his heart feels like it's about to beat out of his chest.

"That was—" Claude begins, after Lorenz shuts off the spray. He fights for the right words. The _professional_ feedback. "A great performance. You're very good. At that."

He's a moron.

"Thank you," Lorenz replies, ever-courteous, and Claude thinks about how he hasn't been nearly vocal enough to justify how gravelly his voice sounds. His entire body is flushed a rosy pink from the hot shower. His cheeks and the bridge of his nose glow from sunburn. Claude makes a mental note to bring him some aloe vera later—as a concerned member of upper-management, of course. 

_We are committed to providing and maintaining progressive terms of employment and investing in the long-term goals of our team members,_ Claude recites inside his head, neatly sidestepping Sylvain's version of their mission statement.

Lorenz clears his throat, eying the towel behind Claude's back. 

"Oh, here," Claude says, snatching the towel off its rack with a noisy clatter and handing it to Lorenz. Their fingers brush as Lorenz takes the fluffy white towel into his arms.

A lull settles damply between them. Claude looks to Lorenz, who is staring at Claude's lips. Claude licks them self-consciously. 

Lorenz's eyes snap up to meet his. 

"So, we both have a policy of not fucking our coworkers," he states very evenly.

"Yeah, sounds like it," Claude hears himself saying like his body is frozen in time while his soul floats overhead, admiring Lorenz's pale flawless skin, the sharp cut of his cheekbones and hips, and the lanky length of his limbs. Imagining how those legs would feel wound tight around his waist, heels digging into his back.

And then, once again, he finds himself watching Lorenz's hips sway away from him, feeling seasick with the motion—and maybe there's a little lovesickness mixed in there too—but in any case he's just _sick sick sick_ of watching Lorenz walk away when all he wants is to kiss him stupid.

Left alone to pack up the equipment, Claude mutters aloud, "But now, I can't remember why."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [RT this fic](https://twitter.com/orgiastique/status/1243892325857755137) | [talk to me about claurenz/sylvix/cats](https://twitter.com/orgiastique)


	2. sylvain

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw for choking & undernegotiated kink for this chapter (unrelated to professional activities).  
> explicit sylvain/felix and caspar/linhardt with mention of hilda/marianne, mercedes/annette, ignatz/raphael, dorothea/petra, past dimitri/felix, and ofc claude/lorenz.

Sylvain has a habit of falling quickly and foolishly into relationships. He's well aware that it is a _bad_ habit, thank you for your concern, but that doesn't make him any more likely to correct his behavior.

A new part-timer working the counter at his favorite coffeehouse would scratch a number onto his cup and they'd be dating by the end of the week (and probably broken up the next). A man could offer to help him carry a heavy box up to his apartment and Felix could be demanding, _Who the_ fuck _is that restocking our toilet paper_ three days later. Once, a long time ago, Sylvain had picked up the same magazine as the person beside him at the dentist's office and they'd immediately gone out for dinner and drinks. Nothing weird about that kind of scenario, until Sylvain found out that his date considered them serious after just that one evening when she continuously demanded to see his phone.

He wasn't sure what exactly it was about him that brought out a possessiveness in others—the prestige of his family name or the challenge of locking down an infamous escape artist is as good a guess as any. But one thing Sylvain knows for certain is that the one person he wouldn't mind a bit of possessiveness from has never felt any such way about him.

Perhaps there is a quota for things like this, and if there is, Felix's lifetime allotment probably all went to the first boy he ever dated. They were together only for a few months the summer before Dimitri went off to college, but Sylvain doesn't think Felix has ever quite gotten over that. 

Which, hey, Sylvain gets it, you know? 

For starters, Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd is the Crown Prince of Faerghus. Not that Sylvain thinks Felix cares about his title (in fact, he'd probably prefer it if Dimitri didn't come with the baggage of royalty, but no one's perfect). It's just got a cool ring to it, you hear? 

"Meet my boyfriend. He is a prince both legally and in terms of his oversized, bleeding heart of gold."

That's how Sylvain would introduce Dimitri if he were _his_ boyfriend, even to people who'd met the guy before. It can never be over-emphasized how excellent a human being Dimitri is. Or how large he is in _every_ manner.

This brings Sylvain to his next point: 

Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd has the single most gorgeous penis Sylvain has ever seen. 

It is perfect in the way of acrylic paintings and clear skies and oceans unfurling into the horizon. The ridge of the underside rises proud and majestic as a mountain range. The crown is dahlia-pink, the color darkening to the summer blush of hibiscus near the very tip. It is girthy and long without being downright obscene—the iconic penis to eternalize in textbooks save for the fact that everyone who lays eyes on Its Majesty would feel immediately inadequate about the sad baggage between their own legs.

Sylvain has seen Its Majesty only once up close and at attention. He'd been lolling around at home on break from uni (after his third change in major, from Physics to Photography) and Dimitri, with no lack of bumbling embarrassment, had sought some very personal advice from him in confidence, which then led to a hands-on demonstration that, after all was said and done, earned a heartfelt touch to the elbow and word of gratitude from his best (and perhaps most eager) student. 

A week later, Sylvain found himself choking on a Reese's Puff as he watched Felix and Dimitri descend upon the kitchen of the Gautier residence hand in hand. He was faced with two pieces of unsolicited knowledge: 1) where Dimitri was putting Sylvain's teachings to use, and 2) that heartbreak was a _bitch_.

But, you know. 

It's chill. 

Everything is a-okay.

It is okay because now, six years later, Dimitri and his perfect penis are far away being princely in Fhirdiad, and Felix is here, sharing the same roof as Sylvain and sometimes the same bed, too.

When Sylvain comes home to their shared condo, it's one in the morning and he finds Felix sitting on their shared couch, faced away from where Sylvain had entered through their shared kitchen. Felix is tapping away on his work laptop, blocky white text scrolling over the black background of a Terminal window. He has the quilt Mercedes knitted for Sylvain's birthday last year tucked up to his neck.

"Hey, you still up?" Sylvain tosses his bag onto a dining chair.

Felix hangs his head over the back of the couch to squint at Sylvain through the dim lighting. "Nah, this is me, asleep. Not waiting for you to stumble home before the asscrack of dawn." The corners of his lips and eyes tug in this way that's a secret smile hidden behind a disapproving frown, and it makes Sylvain feel like he's choking on his own heart. 

Because, probably, everything _would_ be okay—truly okay—if Sylvain wasn't still desperately, painfully in love with Felix, six years later.

Sylvain rounds the couch to kneel down in front of him. When he goes to lift Felix's laptop up off his thighs, Felix doesn't protest, surprisingly, so Sylvain sets it aside, replacing its warmth with that of his own hands over Felix's covered knees. "Oh? You haven't gotten enough of work for one day? Is that a plea for more screen-time I hear?"

"My asshole has had enough of working for _you_ ," Felix corrects. "I have my own business to keep afloat."

"Right, your freelance"—Sylvain mimes typing over Felix's thighs—"computer stuff. How industrious of you, young Felix!"

"Says the guy waltzing through the door past midnight. Have you eaten yet?"

"Yeah, I grabbed a bite with Claude over some new tapes."

Felix's face crumples in disgust, and Sylvain, stupidly, wants nothing more than to kiss the frown from his brow. "Goddess, those working dinners you guys have are _disgusting_. Try something that doesn't come from a box—"

"You may be surprised to know that pizza rolls—"

"—or a _bag_."

"But what is the point of going to the gym if you also have to eat healthy, am I right?" Sylvain returns, waving a hand grandly in the air.

Felix crossed his arms over his chest and glared. "You are not right; you are a suicidal bastard with a family history of heart disease," he huffs, thoroughly unmoved by Sylvain's silly theatrics.

Thankfully, Sylvain has a move for every one of Felix's moods, so he performs a mental pivot, hands creeping up Felix's thigh, as he teases in sing-song, "Aww, is Fewix worried about me? Does he _care_?"

Felix narrows his eyes, and the muscles under Sylvain's wandering fingers stiffen. "You're being a real sack of dicks about this."

"Only one sack? You're generally a little more _generous_ with my—"

"Are you _horny_?" Felix accuses.

Sylvain is not, in fact, horny. It is a rarity in Felix's presence, but he is very tired. He wants go to bed and for Felix to be there, too. He wants to fall asleep with an armful of Felix's knobby limbs and wake up in the morning swimming in Felix's dark hair, the solid weight of Felix's thigh draped over his hip. 

Sylvain wants many things, but most are things he cannot have. So he takes what he can.

He lifts one hand to Felix's cheek and continues trailing the other up to his hip. "For you? Always," he purrs. 

Felix pushes out a laugh through his nose. "You mean, just _always_."

"No, sweetheart. You're a special one," Sylvain says, the words rolling off his tongue smooth as silk. That's one perk of being a compulsive liar: you need no courage to tell the truth because no one believes you anyway.

"Whatever"—but he uncrosses his arms. 

"It's true."

"Shut _up._ "

Sylvain licks his lips and watches Felix's pretty, amber eyes drop to them. Soon, Felix's mouth is there, too, shutting him up with the wet warmth of his tongue, prodding for entrance. That's a question Sylvain never needs to be asked twice. As the kiss deepens, Sylvain wedges a knee between Felix's thighs, peeling the quilt away and blanketing Felix with the heat of his own body instead.

There is this moment—when Sylvain pulls away before Felix is quite finished devouring his mouth, and Felix opens his eyes, unguarded, like his whole heart is laid out for the taking—that Sylvain thinks _maybe_ , _maybe_ —

But it's truly only a moment before it disappears into the pixie dust of night air. Felix finds his bearings again, steady on his little twinkle feet. His eyes are dark with lust but lucid as daybreak, and he says something like, "My ass is still sore," that makes Sylvain want to laugh and cry at the same time.

"We don't have to use it," Sylvain assures him, and he doesn't even mean it in the way of _I want to put my mouth on you_ or _handjobs are a perfectly respectable form of sex_ , but he's thinking more along the lines of snuggling up to the decidedly unsnuggly lines of Felix's body and falling asleep within the next two and a half minutes.

Unfortunately, they do not seem to be on the same page. "What, you're in the mood to get fucked?"

Sylvain is in the mood to sleep, but he says, "Sure" and "Whatever you want, pretty," because Felix is pretty, so pretty, and it is the truth that Sylvain always wants to be with him.

They move to Felix's bed, where everything is familiar: Felix's navy blue sheets, the smell of their tangled bodies seeped deep in the fabric, the rustic collection of medieval swords on display over the rickety wardrobe. Sylvain is on his elbows and knees with his face buried in Felix's pillow as Felix eases him open with his fingers, lube-slick and insistent.

And Sylvain is achingly familiar with that, too. The growing pressure of Felix's fingers inside him, two to three to four.

Felix is doing prep work, diligent and methodical, neatly skirting around Sylvain's penis and prostate—but there's just something about knowing that it's Felix inside him, that it's _Felix_ working him open, that makes Sylvain clench.

A sharp smack startles Sylvain into a yelp. His neglected dick twitches in interest.

"Relax," Felix whispers against the shell of his ear. "Or have you forgotten how to take it up the ass?"

Sylvain laughs weakly, melting into the touch smoothing over the smarting of his butt cheek. "Well, it isn't usually what people look for from me."

"And you're just all about giving the people what they want, aren't you." Felix grips Sylvain's jaw in his hand, calloused fingertips digging into his stubble-rough cheeks as he twists Sylvain's face around. "What is it that _you_ want?"

"Felix…?" Sylvain can't quite read Felix's eyes in their shadowed groves, and it leaves him wondering if this is still just Felix in a Mood or something else entirely. The tone that Felix takes with him is not an unexplored or unwelcome change of pace, but—Sylvain is usually the one who asks for it.

"Say it." 

Sylvain swallows, a thrilled tingle clambering up his spine. "I want your cock."

"Where?"

"I want your cock inside me," Sylvain amends. "I want you to use me and _wreck_ me."

Felix lets out a breath, slow and heavy, fingers flexing inside of Sylvain in a way that doesn't feel entirely intentional but grazes at the spot which lights Sylvain on fire all the same. "Say please."

"Please," Sylvain gasps, fisting at the sheets.

"Good boy." Felix releases Sylvain's jaw and gives his cheek a pat. Sylvain barely has time to relish in the words of praise or the little hint of gratification he's been granted before Felix withdraws his fingers all in a rush, and his whole body jerks at the sudden emptiness inside.

Felix flips him over by the legs, landing him on his back with his limbs akimbo. He can feel the lube trickling down toward his tailbone—can feel how _open_ Felix made him. He mumbles a soft curse that turns into a much louder grunt when Felix shoves his thighs up impatiently, practically folding him in half.

"Hold yourself open," Felix says, and obediently Sylvain loops his arms around the backs of his knees. He thinks fleetingly that it would have been nice, maybe, if he'd been allowed his hands to roam Felix's chest, or knot in Felix's hair, but the would-bes flee his mind once he feels a blunt pressure nudge at his perineum.

Felix slides in slick, smooth, unfaltering, until he's fitted to the hilt, their hips yoked together. As stretched as Sylvain felt before, he made so full now with Felix impossibly thick inside him that he aches with the threat of bursting at the seams.

Breath hot against Sylvain's neck, Felix turns to place first a kiss over his pulse point, then a bruising bite that makes Sylvain hiss and tighten around him. Sylvain takes satisfaction in the way that it draws a tortured whine from Felix, who shudders as he lets his head fall against Sylvain's shoulder.

"You good?" Sylvain asks.

"Peachy," Felix says, not without strain, arms bracketed around Sylvain's head. "You?"

"Never been better," Sylvain says, hands itching to brush the curtain of hair hanging over Felix's face back so he can see his pretty face. "You can move, if you want." A pause. "Please."

Felix snorts. "Proactive."

It sounds like it _should_ be a compliment, which is why it's entirely unfair that what Felix does next is to pull out slowly, letting Sylvain feel it centimeter by centimeter until only the head of his cock is still seated inside. Sylvain opens his mouth to complain, but a howl is ripped from him instead when Felix slams back in and strikes the heart of bull's-eye in what probably would have been an one-shot KO had Sylvain gotten any hint of stimulation on his dick before this. 

And then, Felix begins to move in earnest. 

It's enough to push tears to Sylvain's eyes, how intensely he feels Felix every time he drives in his hips and _grinds_ mercilessly against Sylvain's sweet spot, making him dizzy with pleasure, drunk on the version of the universe that pares down to the glide of their sweaty skin, the weight of Felix's lean bulk pinning him in place.

"Fuck, it's so good," Sylvain moans on a particularly well-placed thrust, and he's made to shout when Felix performs an immediate encore of what he just did. Any reservation for the delicacy of speaking the truth, even on a liar's courage, must be fucked from his mind in that moment because the floodgate burst open to a litany of _Goddess_ , _I just wish we'd left the light on 'cos I wanna see your face better_ and _baby, you're just so pretty when we fuck_ and _oh, there, yes_ **there** and _you're pretty, so pretty all the time—_

 _—_ until Felix silences him with a kiss. The change in angle drives him deeper such that he's not so much nailing Sylvain's prostate over the head as he is merely teasing past it en route to a place Sylvain can't reach himself and no one ever seems to have any interest in tapping into either. Sylvain moans into Felix's mouth, and Felix responds with a gravelly growl, snapping his hips with a feral ferocity that makes Sylvain quiver like a woodland creature caught by the glowing gaze of a ravenous wolf in the dead of night.

And it feels good, so _fucking_ good, that Sylvain gets greedy. He frees one hand to take Felix's from where it's braced left of his ear. Their fingers twine like what it's what they're meant to do, and Sylvain ducks his head to press reverent, open-mouthed kisses to every knuckle of Felix's hand. Felix slows to watch him, lips slightly parted like he wants to say something. He doesn't, though. Doesn't make a sound until Sylvain guides their joined hands to his throat—then, the noise is a dark rumble, a final warning before Felix's fingers constrict just _so_.

He knows what Sylvain needs. Of course he does. He knows exactly how Sylvain likes his bony fingers wrapped around his neck, how much force he likes against the base of his throat to get him red from chest to hairline, clenching every muscle in his body with such desperation that it borders on pain for them both. Felix pushes and pushes and pushes some more until Sylvain is wheezing for breath and quaking with orgasm. Release shoots from his untouched cock like fireworks exploding over the bright canvas of his face and chest. Searching for purchase amidst the turbulence of sensation wracking his body, Sylvain anchors his hands on Felix's shoulders. Vaguely, he registers a sharp sound pushed from clenched teeth, but it takes several more seconds to realize that it's because he must be gripping Felix hard enough to bruise.

"Sorry," Sylvain pants when words return to business. He relaxes his hold but just enough that he can still pull Felix down with him as he collapses into the soft give of the bed limply. When he tilts his head back, Felix's lips are on him, kissing up his chest to his chin. He laps up every drop of cum that crosses his way until he finds Sylvain's mouth, where he drops off the little care package he's rolled into a sloppy ball inside his mouth. Sylvain doesn't need to be instructed to swallow.

"Fuck, you're hot." Felix stares at him with pupils blown and mouth kiss-swollen. "Like _stupid_ hot."

Sylvain laughs loosely as his heart strings tighten. "Look at you being all sweet on me."

Felix mumbles something incoherent (likely dismissive) in response, burying his face into the crook of Sylvain's neck and rutting roughly against Sylvain's hip. He's pulled out now, but they're both still rock hard.

"You need some help with that?" Sylvain taps his lips with a finger. "You've got a reservation at Bistro Gautier if you wanna make use of it, but _I_ will be the one dining."

Felix groans, the sound rumbling over Sylvain's skin, before he pushes onto his elbows to tell Sylvain, "I can't believe you write our lines."

"Oh baby, you know that was one of my finer ones."

"That's the _problem_."

"It's your turn to tell me what you want, sweetheart," Sylvain hums, taking Felix's wet, straining erection in hand. "You wanna fuck me again? You can fuck me again. I'm not quite _wrecked_ yet."

There's a pause as Felix chews on this, touching a deliberative finger to the fingerprints that must be blooming red like a brand against Sylvain's neck. "I'm tired."

Sylvain is too— _has_ been since the moment he walked through the door—even if he's a little more alert with a fresh shot of dopamine pumping through his veins and arousal still thick in his dick. "Sleep?" he offers.

Once again, this doesn't seem to be what Felix had in mind. Felix is quiet, still doodling over Sylvain's skin.

"You want me to get on top?" Sylvain tries.

Felix presses against the hollow of Sylvain's throat—gentle, gentle. "And inside."

"Oh." Sylvain blinks. "I thought you were sore."

The pressure grows impatient but not harsh. "Do you want to fuck me or not?"

"Of course I do," Sylvain says, without pause. He strokes Felix's back reassuringly. "I always want you."

Felix arcs an expectant eyebrow. "Then come and get it."

________

Afterwards, Felix is watching on his phone someone from the other side of the world shoot monsters, and Sylvain is sprawled out next to him, playing with his hair. It is almost like pillow talk in that they are both propped up on pillows and talking intermittently. And they've just finished having sex, three times. It is 2:48AM.

"So, what am I doing next?"

Sylvain hums distractedly. He's in his happy place, braiding Felix's hair like they're sat in a prairie with the warm midday sun overhead, and Felix just lets him do as he pleases. 

"For work," Felix prompts. "I didn't see anything on my calendar after that booklet shoot next week."

"Uh," Sylvain says, reminded in a fit of clarity that Felix is a person who exists in more planes of the universe than the double bed they currently occupy. Right. He lets Felix's hair go, the luscious silk of it gliding like water between his fingers. "I've been stuck on a couple of things."

"Juices run dry?" Felix asks without looking up from his phone.

"You know I _always_ have juice for you, sweatheart," Sylvain croons as he strokes a finger up Felix's ass, from which he'd cleaned out juice between rounds two and three.

Felix rolls away, feigning disgust in that way that he does. There's that secret smile again, hidden in the waning moonlight that weakly illuminates the room. The amusement gleaming in Felix's amber eyes shine brighter when he peers at Sylvain over his shoulder. "Gross."

"Hmmm...wouldn't mind seeing it all over you..." Sylvain ponders, rolling after him and curling an arm around his waist when Felix lets himself be caught. "On your chest, your neck, roped over your pretty face..."

"That was _you_ , earlier."

"Wouldn't it be better if it were _you_ drenched in the juice, though."

"Stop saying juice!"

Sylvain holds back from pointing out that Felix was the one brought it up in the first place, too pleased with the mental image he's painted himself.

Seeing straight through the unsettling silence, Felix kicks Sylvain in the shin. But it's what Sylvain likes to think of as a "love tap," not nearly hard enough to hurt. "Stop picturing it."

"I'm not," Sylvain says, picturing it.

"I can _hear_ you picturing it."

"Okay, I am, but it's only because you'd look so cute all pouty under the spray," Sylvain concedes, imagining a distraught wet cat.

Felix snorts. "Oh sure, getting hosed down from every direction would be so _cute_ ," he says dryly.

"Wouldn't _that_ be a concept! Baby catboy's first gang bang!" Sylvain laughs into Felix's hair, infinitely entertained by the ridiculous impossibility of the idea. 

He laughs a little too hard, perhaps, because Felix's eyes slowly narrow. "You think I can't handle it?"

"Well," Sylvain hedges, thinking of how Felix flinches from the touch of people he doesn't trust and finds it overwhelming sometimes to have even one pair of hands all over his body. In all honesty, Felix is probably not very well suited for the business of making porn, no matter how popular his videos are, but that's not a conversation for tonight. Sylvain fixes his face with a smug smirk. "You're no _me."_

"I know," Felix snaps, expression hardening. "I'm _better_."

"Aww, look at you getting all competi—"

"It's been over a year since you even got your ass in front of the camera."

"I mean, I'm pretty busy with—"

"Write the damn scenario," Felix demands.

Words stutter on Sylvain's tongue for a moment as it finally dawns on him the very serious turn this conversation has taken. "Wait. Felix—"

"This is what I'm doing next," Felix says, jaw set decisively. "I'm not coming in anymore if you won't let me."

Then, he closes out of the stream, slams his phone facedown on his bedside table, and pulls the comforter up to his chin. He grits out a _good night_ that officially seals the end to the conversation. He leaves Sylvain staring wide-eyed at the nest of dark hair poking out from his defensive cocoon of blankets and wondering what the _hell_ went wrong.

________

Seven hours later and Sylvain is still reeling from the events of earlier that morning. He trudges into the kitchen of Divine Pulsing, Ltd. for a sip of caffeinated clarity.

Next to Butter Churner, the company KitchenAid mixer, he finds a frazzled Lorenz, who despite his distress somehow still manages to look stately in his form-fitting black romper. He is standing with Mercedes, who is making her mean face: that exquisite blend of smile and threat when she's about to dig Sylvain extra hard about the impermanence of his relationships or how he needs to lay off on the breakfast Hot Pockets if he wants to live past 30.

Sylvain isn't particularly inclined to throw himself in the path of destruction (especially since a breakfast Hot Pocket was _very_ much on the menu for him this morning), but it'd also suck to lose the new recruit he'd worked so hard to wrangle out from Adrestia Productions's iron-clad clutches. Especially since the gravure shoot Lorenz did with Claude last week _shrieks_ of a hit seller.

So, it is with this in mind that he throwns himself selflessly into the warpath: "Hey gorgeous, you picking on the new guy?" He is instantly filled with regret as Mercedes turns The Smile on him and his balls leap out of their hammock, retreating swiftly into the barracks. 

"Good morning, Sylvain," she greets, utterly unfair in how gentle she sounds even when she's about to rip someone a new asshole. "I'd received a suggestion, an unsolicited one that is, to use fat-free cream cheese for our cum-alike, even though"—she tilts her head innocuously at Lorenz, who freezes like a deer in the headlights—"the point is to make something that _doesn't_ make people gag, Lorenz."

"Huh!" Sylvain intercepts with all the inquisitive cheer he can muster, peering into the mixing bowl. "Isn't the cum-alike we use yoghurt-based?"

"I'm testing a new recipe." Mercedes takes the stainless steel bowl off its stand and lifts up a spoonful of the thick, white substance into the air, letting it fall in velvety ribbons back into the bowl. "This batch came out stiffer than I imagined, but it's very tasty." She licks the spoon clean. "Just thought that it might be nice to be able to form some ropier strands, depending on the situation."

It has been a very cum-filled several hours for Sylvain. "So they're like...cummy worms."

"Sure, darling. Whatever makes you happy," Mercedes says indulgently, like she's talking to a teenager who still believes in Santa and the Tooth Fairy (which, by the way, that was _Dimitri_ , all right).

"Mercedes, if I may." Lorenz clears his throat, further straightening his already proper posture. "Please do forgive me if I ever gave the impression of questioning your...expertise." He offers his hand, palm up, thin fingers extended like an olive branch. "I have always admired your resourcefulness."

"Yes, well"—she rinses her spoon under the tap before reaching to unscrew the whip attachment from Butter Churner and giving that a wash too, placing both on the dish rack—"not everyone can afford to have your gentle sensibilities."

Sylvain's attention rallies between them, brows raised in interest. "You two know each other?"

"Oh. Yes. From long ago," Lorenz says, face clouding.

"We attended the same university in Fhirdiad for a while," Mercedes supplies. "He was quite the talk of the Ikebana Club.

"Didn't you go to school around Derdriu?" Sylvain asks, recalling only one university listed on Lorenz's resume under Education.

"I did not spend much time in Fhirdiad" is all the explanation Lorenz provides before casting a stiff smile at Mercedes, then Sylvain. "I had better be taking my leave now, if you'll excuse me. I'm meant to meet with a Mr. Ubert this morning to discuss our upcoming collaboration, and I regret to leave him waiting."

"Not to worry, _Mr. Ubert_ is a fine young man of unending patience and understanding," informs Sylvain, who finds it near impossible to resist parroting Lorenz's peculiar verbiage. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Mercedes seal up her bowl of cummy worms with a sheet of plastic wrap and stash it in the fridge. "Hey, can I help myself to some of that later?"

"Of course, it's why I brought in the bagels." She gestures to the brown paper bag sitting next to the toaster oven. "Just be a dear and save some for Annie, would you? I'm off to help her reorganize the binder room, and you know how shuffling around in a cramped, enclosed space can work up an appetite." Sylvain swears he'd caught a silver spark flit through her pale eyes, but she vanishes with her long beige dress floating behind her before he has the chance to confirm whether he'd just been warned of scheduled workday canoodling that's entirely unrelated to a rolling camera.

Lorenz, too, bids his farewell. He loads a violet teapot and two matching cups onto a tray and makes to sweep off in a mist of faint floral fragrance. But before he can exit the kitchen, he is made to halt in his step to avoid bumping into someone strolling in. The tea set skids across the tray, breaking just at its raised edge.

"Whoa, sorry," says Claude, with his back pressed up against one side of the doorframe, hands raised in arrest. He's holding up a pudding cup in one, GMU coffee mug in the other. His gaze settles over Lorenz's face, and a smile spreads slowly, gently, across his features. "Oh, mornin' there. Sorry to startle you, Lorenz. You all right?"

"I'm quite fine, thank you," Lorenz responds with a polite nod, straightening his tea set. "Do excuse me. I am late to an appointment."

With a smirk tilting his lips, Sylvain tracks Claude's fumble across the room toward the water dispenser, head poked over his shoulder toward where Lorenz had walked off. Sylvain gives himself a mental pat on the back for another pair of red strings well drawn.

"You do you, dude," he comments with exaggerated insouciance, strolling up to drape a friendly arm across Claude's shoulder, "but sure you wanna be adding hot water to that?"

Claude jumps, tearing his eyes from the doorway. His pudding drowns pitifully in a pool of boiling water.

________

"So you guys didn't do it under the double waterfall?"

Over the glossy oak desk mounted at the rear of Sylvain's office, Claude stirs a tiny plastic spoon through his half-melted cup of (formerly) jiggly goodness. Even though he'd hurriedly decanted the hot water, the pudding had already taken a turn for the loose and gloppy, much the same consistency as cum-alike v1.0. This does not seem to dissuade Claude from his morning snack, though. He brings a gloopy glob to his mouth. (It has been a _very_ cummy morning indeed.)

"Aren't you always telling me that a gentleman never kisses and tells?"

"Ah. So nothing happened."

"What did you expect? We were there for work," Claude sighs.

Smiling gleefully, Sylvain twirls around in his leather executive chair much in the way of a super villain (or super _genius_ ). "C'mon now, you can tell Big Brother Sylvain the truth. You thought about making a move. You thought about it _hard_."

Claude runs a hand up the backside of his head through the forest of wavy hair he hasn't bothered to tie up today. For a moment, Sylvain thinks that they might be on the cusp of a tête-à-tête just like the good ol' times at the Garreg Mach IHOP, except for once it'll be _Claude_ crying about a pretty boy's ass. 

But, disappointingly, what Claude says is "Seems like Big Brother Sylvain has bigger fish to fry than talking me _out_ of maintaining a professional distance with our employee." He taps an accusing finger at a custom ghost icon on Sylvain's computer desktop labeled "Script Graveyard."

"Whyyy," Sylvain cries out, pained by the reminder.

"Think it's high time we get ourselves a dedicated writer?"

"Ugh, I _guess_." Sylvain laments, giving his chair another half-turn, this time feeling like a sulking child. Though Sylvain too agrees that, what with the rapid expansion of the company, it's no longer sustainable for him and Claude each to be performing five people's jobs, scenario-writing is only second to video-editing among the tasks Sylvain enjoys best. "But it _must_ be someone who understands the importance of paying homage to the classic _Is that breadstick in your pants or are you happy to see me?_ in a pizza delivery guy vid."

"So not an internal hire then."

"No, none of this _disrespectful_ lot," Sylvain mourns, wrinkling his nose.

Claude chuckles good-naturedly. "I'll have Lysithea write up a job posting, then."

"Well, hmm," Sylvain considers, cradling his chin in the space between his thumb and forefinger (called the purlicue, supplies his brief stint as a Biology major). "Maybe hold that thought for a bit. I have a half-baked idea that might be more...fun."

"My _favorite_." Claude tips back the rest of his pudding in a chunky, half-congealed mass. "In the meantime, though, I saw that you submitted a blank placeholder for a new project? You got the script down for that one?"

Sylvain lets his eyes slide sidelong toward the open window, gazing at a gloomy, overcast day, as he contemplates how much he should disclose regarding the situation. "It's...in the works," he says, and by that he means he'd jotted down the words "catboy gang bang" in the Notes app of his phone while he waited for the shower to warm up that morning, felt sick to his stomach, and turned off his phone altogether.

Sensing something amiss, Claude presses, "How's it coming?"

"It's coming." Then, unable to contain his suffering: "Muchly."

"Oh boy." Claude sets down his empty pudding cup. "What's the scenario?"

"Five roommates share a catboy."

Claude's eyes round in surprise. "Wait, this is for Felix? You talked to him about it?"

"He _insisted_ ," Sylvain replies, which gets his stomach churning queasily yet again.

"I see," Claude says, carefully even. "Didn't think he'd be into that kinda thing." _He isn't_ , Sylvain wants to interject, but he isn't exactly proud of the (admittedly major) part he'd played in (inadvertently!) goading Felix into it thinking this is what he wants to do, so he keeps mum on that detail. "And you didn't try to talk him out of it?"

"Well, he said he wouldn't come in anymore if I didn't let him do this. Got all"—a vague wave of the hand—"you know."

Claude laughs, shaking his head. "Oh, I hear the hissing. You know, it's only because you're so weak to him being all"—he imitates Sylvain's hand-waving—"that he's like that with you." 

Claude's not wrong, obviously. Damn him for _knowing_ things. "You would be too if you grew up with him," Sylvain insists. "It's impossible to deny him anything."

"Even five dicks?"

Sylvain groans. "Even five dicks."

"I'm sure I don't need to tell you that I think this is a bad idea."

"You don't think it'll sell?"

"No, people will love it. You know that's not what I'm saying," Claude chides. "Come on, we've been through, what? Five years now?—of"—he strains his voice up to an exaggerated soprano—"and then he just rolled out of bed! Can you _believe_ that? My dick wasn't even _dry_ yet!'"

Sylvain sniffles delicately. "I don't sound like that."

"Look," says Claude, with a Voice of Reason _, "_ if you're going to be setting _me_ up with inappropriate matches—"

"That's not true!"

"—it _so_ is, but again, not the point. Just hear me out, all right?" Claude leans forward, arms folded over the table, green eyes round and compelling. Sylvain is suddenly reminded of the fact that on top lending his ear to Sylvain's woes, Claude also used to write for the well-loved anonymous advice column in _Cheers to Queers_ , the monthly LGBT+ publication at GMU. A master of smoothing ruffled rainbow feathers with his empathey and humor, "Khalid" was somewhat of an idol among their peers. "All I'm saying is that porn is a bit of a peculiar side-business for someone who's as averse to being watched and touched by strangers as Felix is, you know?" Sylvain knows. It's something that often occupies his mind in the sleepless crevices between pre-dawn and daybreak. "He's got a whole other career outside of this, and it's not like he's exactly hurting for money. He doesn't need to be here at all, and yet."

Sylvain pulls at his bottom lip with his teeth. This whole conversation rattles at the duct-taped box he keeps in a dark corner of a broom closet in the auxiliary building on the opposite side of town from where his heart hammers in his chest. "And yet." 

"You gotta talk to him, boss," Claude says, hand gentle but firm over Sylvain's shoulder. "The least you can do is _try_ before you throw him in a pit of dicks."

The box makes a terrible clattering noise. "I think the missed opportunity there is something about a _ball_ pit," Sylvain points out, making no promises.

Claude sighs long-sufferingly. "Well? Then let's hear about this catboy ball pit."

________

It's not that Sylvain doesn't _want_ to take the advice of a trusted friend to heart. It's just. The thing is.

Okay, so here's the thing.

Felix. 

He's important, you see.

Like 'would protect at the risk of making enemies out of the whole world' important. Like 'would wade through swamps and hike Everest to seek the golden elixir of his happiness' important. Like 'Sylvain's _person_ ' important.

Just. 

Sylvain _needs_ him in his life no matter what shape that might take.

And while Sylvain by no means considers their relationship delicate—quite the opposite, in fact—it would be asking too much to want more than he has. He's had so much many material things growing up that it feels only too selfish to crave immaterial things, too.

No one can have everything, right?

With just the wink of an eye across a seedy bar, Sylvain could have all the women he wanted warming his bed, but it would never bring back the mother who walked out on him when he was seven. With the swipe of a platinum credit card, Sylvain could have all the video games the other kids had to beg and plead for, but he'd lost the sibling to play them with before he was even born. With the slightest touch of effort, Sylvain could have all the trophies and certificates to prove his worth to his father, but the man would have still never seen him as anything more than a pawn in the grand enterprise of advancing the Gautier bloodline.

Felix is the only happiness Sylvain has never had to trade for, and so it is only fair that Felix will never truly be his.

The world is well-balanced like that.

He considers this at lunchtime as he sits alone at a picnic table just outside the gates of the Divine Pulsing building, which overlooks a busy highway. In his plate is a poppy seed bagel with a generous serving of cummy worms smeared over both halves. Sylvain had come out here, feeling in need of some fresh air, but it's still such a crummy day that it does little to improve his mood. The grey clouds hang heavily overhead, burdened by the weight of imminent rainfall. It'd be easier if they'd just let out the boohoos already.

Out of his peripheral vision, Sylvain spots a glimpse of blue skies. When he turns to chase what is surely an illusion, he finds himself looking at a very real head of bright, cerulean hair pinned up into a braided bun. A (very beautiful) young woman with downcast eyes, dressed in a modest white blouse with puffy sleeves and royal blue peasant skirt, approaches the gates of the small warehouse Sylvain had had converted to studio and office space. She raises her head to peer around nervously. When she catches Sylvain staring at her, she freezes, brown eyes blown wide in almost comical panic. 

Sylvain, too, blinks at her—not only in surprise, but also recognition.

"Hey, are you Ambassador Edmund's daughter?" He bolts up from his seat, "Marianne, right?" He takes one step forward; she takes two steps back.

"Y-yes, I'm sorry, I'm supposed to meet someone here," she stutters all in a rush, holding the lunch bag in her hands up to her chest defensively. The bag is pink with little white hearts that matches the equally cute bracelet dangling from her left wrist. She peeks anxiously through the choppy bangs drawn over her eyebrows. "Do we...know each other?"

"I'm Sylvain—Ambassador Gautier's son?" He shines a wide grin at her, one without too much teeth, trying to be mindful of her skittishness. That much doesn't seem to have changed from when they were little. "We used to get seated next to each other at the kids table during those big Saint Seiros' Day banquets at the Monastery?"

"Oh, I see…" She frowns, looking troubled. "I'm sorry, I'm afraid I never paid much attention..."

 _Too busy trying to blend into the fabric of the dining chair, probably_. "Well, that's okay!" Sylvain leans back against the picnic table, holding his body language open like the way he was taught during his half semester as a Business major. "So, what brings you to Divine Pulsing today? Thinking of a change in career?" He throws a wink, light and breezy.

It bounces off Marianne like rubber. She retreats further behind the lunch bag. "Um...like I said, I'm looking for someone."

"Who're you looking for? I know everyone around—"

"Mari!" a shrill, neon-toned voice calls out, followed by the rapid clicking of stiletto heels over the concrete path leading out from the building. Hilda yanks open the metal gate, sending it flying under her gorilla strength. "There you are!"

The plagued expression melts visibly from Marianne's face as Hilda throws her arms around her waist. She even _smiles—_ and _oh_ , Sylvain doesn't remember ever seeing the girl smile before, but she should definitely do it more often because it's so irresistibly charming—into Hilda's shoulder as she's enveloped in a cloud of bubble-gum pink _everything_. Sylvain can already smell the sweet scent of Hilda's fruity perfume pervading the courtyard. "Sorry, I didn't if you were coming out or if I was supposed to go in...."

"Oh, don't worry about it, we'll get Ingrid to make you a badge next time."

"But I don't work here…"

Hilda dismisses this with the wave of a hand, silvered bracelets jangling noisily in the wake of the gesture. Among the many looped around her wrist is one that looks like it could match the one Marianne's wearing. "If Sylvain can get a badge for his penis plushie, I'm sure we can get one for you, babe." Over Marianne's shoulder Hilda sticks her tongue out at Sylvain, who makes a face right back at her. "So, seems like you've met the bossman already?"

"We go waaay back," Sylvain offers.

"You go way back with _everyone_." Hilda rolls her eyes, hand over hip. "I was asking _Marianne_ a question, excuse you."

"I-it's okay, Hilda! It doesn't really matter," Marianne flusters, transferring the lunch bag that she'd been using as shield into Hilda's arms now that Hilda has become her new, much more effective shield. "Here, your lunch. I need to be getting back to class, so I can't stay long."

"You sweet thing, going out of your way just for me," Hilda sings. Then, putting Sylvain's suspicions to rest, she pushes up onto her tiptoes to smack a smooch squarely onto Marianne's coral pink lips. She winds her arm around one of Marianne's. "Well, we can at least hang out for a bit at the bus stop! I'll walk you there."

"I'd like that," Marianne mumbles, with a smear of Hilda's red-orange lip gloss clinging to her gentle smile. She turns to Sylvain and nods, gaze aimed somewhere left of his cognac leather boots. "It was nice meeting you...again."

"The pleasure is all mine," Sylvain replies smoothly. "A pretty lady like you is welcome here anytime."

"Stop flirting with my girlfriend, Sylvain!" is Hilda's parting shout as she whizzes Marianne away in the direction of the nearest bus stop.

"That's _Mr. Gautier_ to you, missy!" Sylvain shoots back. 

Which, not unexpectedly, goes ignored. Because why would you waste your time bickering with your boss when you could be whispering sweet-nothings into the ear of your drop-dead gorgeous girlfriend? For a few seconds more, Sylvain watches the two of them disappear down the block, a palette of cotton candy colors brightening the dreary grey skyline.

Damn.

Sylvain's always respected that Hilda had game, but _damn_.

He's as happy for Hilda as he is sad about the fact that it's just him and his two bagel halves again. The three of them at least have an extra thick blanket of cummy worms for that bonus boost of creamy comfort.

Sylvain is reaching for his phone to check on some emails while he eats when it buzzes in his hand. It's Felix, who frequents Sylvain's phone close to never outside of asking him to bring home milk.

 **Felix:** where are you?  
 **me:** ohhhhhh where do u want me to be, baby? ;)  
 **Felix:** ...  
 **Felix:** how bout stewing in the depths of ailell for being an annoying ass  
 **me:** annoying is not punishable by law!  
 **me:** and even if it were, fodlanian law is anti corporal punishment  
 **me:** ask His Highness!  
 **Felix:** …  
 **Felix:** ………….  
 **Felix:** okay, well i'm going home then  
 **me:** wait, ur here?? at dp????? wwhy?  
 **me:** im out in the front courtyard! i can pop in to find u!  
 **Felix:** just stay put

This turns out to be a taller order than it sounds. Sylvain finds it almost impossible not to fidget in his seat, eyeing every tree and bush in the vicinity as if Felix was likely to spring out at him ninja-style from behind the foliage. He pushes at his bagel. He checks his phone again. Then, just as it passes the five-minute mark from Felix's last text and Sylvain begins to wonder if this is what it feels like to be a guy on a blind date whose set-up came, saw him, and left, he spots a tiny, slouchy blob of a man round the corner from the rear of their red-bricked building. Sylvain waves his arm in the air, pushing aside the inexplicable sensation of butterflies in his stomach just from seeing Felix when he hadn't expected to.

Walking through the gates that Hilda had left swinging open, Felix tilts his chin at Sylvain in lieu of a proper greeting, as he often does. He has a large paper bag clutched in one hand. He's glaring at Sylvain's bagel.

"It's not from a box!" Sylvain protests preemptively. "Everything you see here is à la cuisine de Mercie."

Felix moves towards Sylvain in three efficient strides and slams the bag down across the table. "Okay, well everything in this bag is à la that hippy vegan place over that way," he says, gesturing toward the busy block of artsy boutiques and small family restaurants behind DP, "and it's green. So this is what you're eating today."

Sylvain spares only a glance down at the noisy brown cardboard containers Felix pulls out of the crinkly paper bag before gazing up at Felix. Felix has tucked his long hair up into a messy bun today, and his cheeks are wind-flushed, pink and pretty. Fitted across his lean but surprisingly well-toned torso is a jean blue button-up with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. There's sweat beading above his brow, presumably from running in circles getting them a lunch to share (unprompted! _un-promp-ted)_ even though as far as Sylvain is aware, Felix doesn't even have any business at DP today. Sylvain ducks his head, trying to wrap his head around this turn of events, and there in his field of view are two containers of salad. _Health food_ , in light of the conversation they had last night (before that whole gang bang business came about).

"You're, like, the hottest mom ever," Sylvain murmurs, stupid and in love.

Felix's whole face screws up as he slides into the bench across from Sylvain, their legs jostling for space. They settle for both of Felix's knees wedged in between Sylvain's manspread. "Talk like a normal human being. Why can't you talk like a normal human being?"

"Sorry," Sylvain says, sliding his sad bagel plate out of the way to make room for what he's decided to refer to in his head as Felix's Care Package of Deep & Unconditional Affection. He hopes it tastes a little better than the care package Felix slipped him last night, but after jostling Felix's Care Package of Deep & Unconditional Affection around a bit, it seems rather unlikely that a salad consisting of power greens and cucumber _only_ would taste much better than fresh cum snowballed from the mouth of his—hmm. There's a lot ways to finish that sentence, many of which make Sylvain feel a variety of things, so he defaults to grinning, bright and chipper. "Thanks for caring about my heart health, dear roommate of mine."

Reaching for the other container, Felix grunts his acknowledgement. As he's forcing open the lid, he mumbles under his breath, so quietly Sylvain almost doesn't catch it over the whooshing of cars passing by on the highway, "I don't like it when you call me that."

"My roommate?" Sylvain dips a hand into the bag to feel around for plasticware. He takes one for himself and offers the other to Felix. "Would _dear sweetness of my heart_ be preferable?" he offers, only teasing of course. He fully expects to be brushed off in the way of a rather large crumb on one of those cute little crumb sweepers, which is a thing that Felix uses often on the dining and non-dining spaces of their condo, insisting that their home would be infested with rats addicted to parmesan cheese otherwise.

Except. 

Felix falls silent. The pink of his cheeks darken to red, spreading over his neck and ears. He stabs his fork into the container with many times the force necessary to penetrate tender greens.

"Do what you're gonna do," he mumbles, biting the salad off his fork with a vengeance that Sylvain fears may snap a tine or three. "Fuck, salad is _disgusting_."

"Did you grab some dressing at least?" Sylvain asks, knowing from his last expedition into the now-empty bag that Felix did not. He fixes his gaze on the bag while he entreats his racing heart to consider the option of giving fewer fucks about the man chomping down on dry salad like a cow masticating grass (and maybe _not_ find the sight so endearing?). But his heart only redoubles its efforts as he mentally replays Felix's reaction. His lips go dry and his palms go wet. He barely registers Felix's disgruntled reply of _How was I supposed to fucking know? I never eat this shit either._

It's so silly, isn't it? That Sylvain spends his days watching people jack off and fuck and expend copious amounts of fluids all over each other, and _this_ is what gets him. Felix allowing his silly affectionate pet names. Felix getting grumpy at the idea of them being just roommates every time Sylvain undershoots the square footage in Felix's heart he expects himself to occupy.

"Hey Felix?" he begins, high on the sugar rush of giddiness dilating through his system.

"What?" Felix chews, cow-like.

"Would you miss me if I wasn't around anymore?"

Felix chokes, eyes bugging. "What the _fuck_ did you do?"

"Nothing, nothing." Sylvain hands Felix a napkin to wipe up the strand of half-ruminated... _something_ clinging to his chin. "Just a hypothetical question."

"It's a stupid one," Felix notifies him.

Sylvain balances his chin between his hands, kicks his feet a little. Keep it light. Keep it flirty. "Oh, but won't you humor me, _mon petit chou_?"

Felix doesn't look up from his fiber-rich meal. Sylvain wonders if he's contemplating roundhouse-kicking Sylvain's ass into ozone for not talking like a normal human being again. But when Felix finally swallows dryly around his mouthful of greens, he grumbles, eyes averted, "You suck sometimes, but it'd suck even harder if you dumbass went and left me behind, okay?"

And it's—it's that moment again. Like when Sylvain had pulled out of the kiss before Felix was ready, and he'd felt for a whole heartbeat and a half that maybe, just _maybe_ —

"So." Felix points his fork imperatively at Sylvain's salad, still sitting untouched. "Eat your leaves." 

Sylvain eats his leaves. As it turns out, the bitter spice of undressed arugula isn't so bad when your heart is on fire.

________

The rest of Sylvain's day meanders by in a rose-colored haze.

In the early afternoon, he watches Caspar take Linhardt apart with his fingers and tongue as Linhardt lies sprawled out on his back, beckoning the treatment of a princess. They're a pair that can tune up or tone down with all the practiced ease of two people who can read each other's subtlest tells like they're a screaming headline. Today, on the theme of a couple enjoying a rare weekend alone, Caspar fucks Linhardt hard and slow, making for the tortuous lovemaking that the camera adores.

They entangle and grind, coming together in languid kisses that go on forever. With his other hand fisted in Linhardt's forest green locks, Caspar suckles bite marks on Linhardt's throat with tiny snips of teeth. In the next flick of his wrists, Linhardt writhes against him, words falling from his tongue like the escaped vapors of boiling water: _more, yes, there_. Caspar doesn't speed up, though, and slowly, like the sun meandering toward twilight, Linhardt starts to lose his patience, the tiny sounds he makes escalating toward desperation as he, now lying facedown in the pillow, rubs himself on the sheets in wanton jerks of his hips. But still, Caspar kisses his back, seemingly without a care in the world, for hours on end with eyes hot and dark, and rough boxer's hands trailing all over Linhardt's soft skin until suddenly—Linhardt gasps, fingers twisting in the sheets, and his head tilts back, crying a fake name before he shudders his release onto the sheets.

After the cameras stop rolling, they're back to _Caspar_ and _Lin_ again, whispering quietly to each other as Linhardt lets Caspar whisk him away to the changing rooms on piggyback. As they pass by the panel of monitors Sylvain's stationed himself in front of, they wave their goodbyes for the day—Linhardt with a groggy flop of the wrist, Caspar with the hearty vigor of a man reborn—and Sylvain waves back.

Within the minute, Raphael and Ignatz start taking apart the minimalist apartment set-up so that there's space to roll in the dramatic canopy bed on which Petra and Dorothea are to consummate their royal marriage in half an hour. Sylvain's offers to help have been politely refused enough times that he knows the most help he can do is just to stay out of their way as the two of them move about like a coordinated whirlwind, stacking all the pieces to be removed onto a moving dias that they wheel out through the wide double-doors of the studio.

The sound of familiar voices drifts through the open doors, catching Sylvain's attention. When he turns to investigate, he spots Lorenz and Claude walking side by side, heads ducked in laughter unheard. They're followed by Ashe who appears to be engaging the new recruit Yuri in friendly conversation. The two of them make a pretty picture together, Sylvain decides, scribbling a note in the margins of his legal pad to pitch the idea of pairing them off for Yuri's debut film.

Sylvain watches people flit around him, flocking in pairs. He's no stranger to the concept of love as a spectator sport. More often than not, it feels like the endnotes of _Love, Actually_ around the offices and studios of Divine Pulsing, Ltd., and Sylvain prefers it that way. He's one who keeps tugging on red strings, after all.

Because despite the fact that he'd kicked off this whole venture as a _fuck you_ to his shitty father who shittily hit the shitter before Sylvain had a chance to go off on all the ways he's been a shithead, there's always been this other part of him—the small piece of his heart that isn't yet rotten and brown—that does want it all, if not for himself then for the people around him. That hopes maybe, for a change, he could take all the terrible material things he's been left with and trade them in for the beautiful immaterial things he's always craved.

Maybe, he could snack enough on the crumbs of other people's happiness to satisfy the hollow hankering deep in his gut for something sweet and wonderful.

______

Sylvain was 24 when his father passed suddenly and without fanfare. It was a plain old Tuesday, and he'd been in France for official business. There was no cause for suspicion of foul play, but the man was a public figure who died on the clock in a foreign country so Sylvain was asked if he wanted to send the body to autopsy.

 _Open his chest and tell me what it looks like inside_ , he'd had half a mind to say.

But the nice lady on the phone played no part in Ambassador Gautier's cruel indifference or the way he treated his children like legacy instead of people. Besides, Sylvain had mistakenly hit on her three seconds before she dropped the news about his father, so he and the nice lady already had more than enough awkward history together.

"Sure. Send him in," he answered.

The results that came by a few days later revealed that his father had a genetic heart defect that wasn't indicated anywhere on his medical records, but it was consistent with his cause of death. The doctor had suggested that Sylvain receive a thorough round of testing as well, so that he could be aware of his own condition and take the necessary precautions.

Now, pre-med was not one of the six majors Sylvain dabbled in, and the extent of his medical knowledge began at hand sanitizer and ended at band-aids for boo-boos. But he'd felt in that moment like he knew better than any doctor that the worst any test could only prove was what he'd known about himself all his life and hadn't done a single damn thing to improve: that like father, like son, Sylvain had something broken in him too.

________

Next working dinner sees Sylvain bounding into the edit suite wielding a sack of salad mix in one hand and a 6-pack of cucumbers in the other. The neck of a raspberry vinaigrette bottle sticks out from his saggy pants pocket.

Claude does a double take. "Dude, are you okay?"

"Just _excellent._ " Sylvain sets down his supplies. "Trying a new thing." He looks at Claude and grins, tapping at one corner of his own eyes. "Return of the spectacles?"

"Well...someone said something very nice about them, so." There's a lopsided grin curled around Claude's lips that's so soft around the edges it leaves no doubt in Sylvain's mind who that _someone_ was. "Thought I'd give them another spin." Claude adjusts his glasses over the bridge of his nose.

"You know, now that I look at them, they're not half bad," Sylvain remarks, wedging a finger through the plastic of the cucumber 6-pack. He wiggles out one juicy, green bad boy himself and offers another to Claude, who takes it with no lack of amusement shimmering behind the round half-lenses.

"Doesn't take a surgeon to bring about a change of heart, huh."

Sylvain raises his cucumber. "Cheers, man."

________

It isn't until Ingrid pings him by email the next morning to update him on the status of "Project Ball Pit" that Sylvain realizes that in the ruckus of cute pet names and celebration of heart health awareness, he'd forgotten to do something very, very important.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [RT this fic](https://twitter.com/orgiastique/status/1243892325857755137) | [talk to me about claurenz/sylvix/cats](https://twitter.com/orgiastique)


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